


Les Flèches

by WishWriter



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, I tried to keep it as close as possible to my original, Modern AU, Oneshot, brief mention of the Golden Deer, this is translated directly from French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishWriter/pseuds/WishWriter
Summary: He follows the arrows on the walls of the station—the arrows that will lead him to her.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Les Flèches

**Author's Note:**

> SO! Hello! This is a new fandom and a new experiment for me! As usual, I have used any creative writing assignments as an excuse to write fanfction. Unlike usual, that creative writing project happened to be in French. Now, I haven't been learning French for a horribly long time, so my writing style is much more simplified than normal, but it kinda fit the vibe. I will also post the original French version separately and you bilinguals can tell me how rough my French is lol.

It began with the dreams. The little moments that were too vivid for normal dreams. He dreamed of a war, his hands around an arrow, his legs gripping the back of wyvern. For him, it’s all fantasy. Yes, it was his hands that lazily spun arrows before firing them with a deadly precision, but it was not really him. But the dreams were so real. They didn’t have that airy quality that others did. In the mornings, he almost expected to find his hands covered in callouses after a night of archery. But his hands told the truth—they stayed soft and brown.

He dreamed of another pair of hands, scarred and gripped around the hilt of a sword. Often, they were covered in blood and grime, but the nails stayed filed and neat. Under the dirt, he knew they were pale and warm. In his most recent dream, he had taken those hands into his own. It was just a dream; he shouldn’t remember it so clearly. One night, he wishes to see the owner of these hands.

In the daylight, he lives in routine. The train, work, the café, the train again, and then back home. He has friends, a whole group in fact, but he often goes weeks without seeing them. He wonders if perhaps the dreams began because he was distancing himself from them, or the other way around. Often, one of his friends would invite him to hang out.

“Sorry!” he always says, with a smile that does not quite reach his eyes. “But I have a lot of work to finish up. Maybe next time?”

For him, the only time he can concentrate is at the café. One of the baristas, a woman with brown hair, around the age of his mother, had begun to save him a place in the corner of the café. Her smile is pointed, and her eyes are wise. She is the only one who knows of his dreams.

“Boy,” she says as he enters the café. “I hope that you have good news for me today.” She has already made his favorite pine needle tea.

“Sorry Judith,” he always responds, taking his cup of tea. “Her face is still a mystery.”

His corner gives him time to think. The woman in his dreams, the war, the dragon, the arrows—where did they come from? The tea does nothing to soothe him. Soon, the cup is empty, and he bids Judith a goodbye with promises to return tomorrow. He must leave; his train will not wait.

The train station is always crowded. Even after almost five years in this town, he finds himself confused by all the twists and turns in the station. He knows his single route, and that is enough for now. He follows the arrows on the walls to his train. He brushes shoulders with many of the people around him, but the touch barely registers. His thoughts are occupied by hands around a sword. He boards his train and wraps his own hands around the metal bar. It is too cold to pretend they are wrapped around hers.

He is worried about falling asleep that night. He fears she will decide not to visit him. But, like always, his breathing slows, and he is thrown onto the battlefield. He is above the others, secured in the saddle of a snow-white wyvern. Behind him, the army holds a golden banner emblazoned with a crescent moon.

“Advance!” his own voice yells, and the golden army below him charges. The wings of his wyvern beat heavily as he fires off his arrows, all of them finding a deadly mark. He is locked in aerial combat with a Pegasus knight when he hears a voice.

“Claude!” someone cries from the ground below. Claude is not his name, but he turns his head as if on instinct. Below him, a golden warrior is surrounded by five enemies. The warrior is holding their ground, but one sword cannot win against five axes. With an arrow to the heart of the Pegasus knight, he descends, dismounts his wyvern, and take his place behind the warrior. Back to back, they engage the rest of the enemies in combat, his arrows flying true. He can feel the warmth of blood splash on his face. Soon, only bodies are left at their feet.

“Thank you, Claude,” the warrior says, and he finally turns. Clear blue eyes look into his own. Her hair is choppy and uneven, blood is smeared on her face, and she is beautiful. He glances at the hands around her sword. A perfect match.

“Of course,” his voice responds without his consent. “What is a master tactician without his commander?” She smiles, but her gaze is sad.

“We must soon face the emperor.”

“It’s the only way to finish this war,” his voice says, finally taking those pale hands into his own.

“I know,” she says sadly. He brings her hands to his lips and gently kisses them.

“It will be over soon, my friend. We will face her together.”

Before he can hear her response, he wakes up. He never got her name.

His day is filled with thought of her face. Work is a blur; he is in a trance. His feet take him to the café on autopilot. In the haze of his thoughts, he bumps into someone as he enters the doors of the café—he mutters “sorry” without thinking.

“Judith,” he says, eyes wide and wild. “I saw her.”

The older woman stops. “Really? Who is she, Khalid?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I never heard her name. But I could pick her out of any crowd. She was bloody and tired, but she looked at me in the most beautiful way.” The woman sighs.

“The dreams, boy, are you certain they’re true? You seem to be chasing air.” Those wise eyes hold sadness.

He feels anger boiling in his chest. “It’s true, Judith. I know her. A past life, a forgotten love, something. She wouldn’t haunt my dreams without reason.”

“It’s your choice, boy. If you choose to chase dreams, I won’t stop you.”

He leaves the café without another word, without his pine scented tea. More confused than before, he returns home early, breaking his well-worn routine. He approaches the station—it’s full, but of different people than he’s used to. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of choppy hair, and hands, smooth and pale, around not a sword but a suitcase. She turns the corner, following the arrows on the wall.

He runs, as if possessed. He follows the arrows on the walls of the station—the arrows that will lead him to her.

He turns the corner to see her board the train. Without thinking, he boards it also. He does not know where it is headed. He only knows that she is looking at him with those clear blue eyes. She looks at his hands, and he sees the recognition in her eyes.

Their gazes connect, and for the first time in what seems like years, he feels his smile reach his eyes.


End file.
